pps: xmas fff

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vision 2010: happy merry death of development

lest we forget, amidst the festivities, what does really go on in sweet trinbago, i still going and talk wha' i was planning to talk. when i see shit like the driver of tcn2641 beating down a poor female in the middle of the road in plain view, or jackasses using the shoulder like is a lane during rush hour to get themselves ahead of the rest of we because they so much more important then squeezing back into the real lane somewhere ahead thus making traffic worse for everybody else behind their reentry point, i tell myself: why you surprised? this is the same dictatorship that hosts summits pretending climate change is a concern while clearing enormous swathes of land for smelters and pumping+dumping who-knows-what into the beetham, that spends more $ than taxpayers can provide to build buildings that serve no function across the road from existing buildings already serving the function the new ones claim to (next non-fff post) while folks die for lack of medical treatment...and we know trickle-down governance works like only promises of trickle-down economics do.for the recent commonwealth heads of government meeting (chogm), the ministry of community development, culture and gender affairs' culture division set up and administrated the $4million people's space in our savannah, according to the express newspaper's report of the minister: the People’s Space will be the premier spot for nationals and visitors to share in Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting (CHOGM) activity through participating in discourse, literacy, performing, visual and culinary arts...at least eight pavilions, which are designed to showcase the rich culture of this country to the thousands who are expected to visit during the hosting of CHOGM...according to my eyewitnessing, these "pavilions" were leaky tents arranged circularly, apparently to look like a bird's eye view of a steelpan. but it seems the designated space was limited: tents were literally right next to each other with thoughtfully simultaneous programming in spite of no more than an unsoundproofed under20feet of open air between "spoken word" and the adjacent "panyard" tents- not that one needed to be in the tent next door for "panyard" to drown out the in-house entertainment...i was an assistant stage manager for "masala" tent so i know that what little information stage management received was woefully inadequate, not even including names of performance groups and length of items, and i coincidentally performed in that same tent one night for continuum dance project; stage management paperwork for continuum's performance timeslot listed simply "guest of commonwealth foundation" with no information on who+what the piece was, not even to determine whether to set microphones or sweep floor for dancers, while our choreographer had no knowledge of being any such "guest of commonwealth foundation" so confusion as to whether the timeslot continuum' was told was truly ours since continuum was nowhere on stage management paperwork and had no connection to the commonwealth foundation, plus neither team knew in advance we were to be televised live during performance so nobody was technically ready. masala tent also had a listing (can't call it "information") for a possible "secret performance" (their term) that nobody would tell stage management anything about, yet somehow expected us to "be ready for whatever" the performance might entail at any time they chose to run it, which could be (and indeed, turned out to be) never. i wanted them to try and run it though, just so whatever they needed, i could not have: "what? you need microphones? will a props table do? dancers need a clean floor? sorry, might plastic chairs help?"they had schools bus students in daytimes to see programming @ this people's space, but didn't actually schedule any programming (or open the food court, or in some cases, even provide water for drinking or handwashing) so all week students wandered around, bored+hungry, out of school for no good reason, 'cause we can afford our youth being less educated.all of this exposition is merely the set-up for the p.s. de resistance, though, the deux ex machina. this poorly planned+executed "people's space" hosted a performance specially for the wives of chogm delegates on the last sunday. day before, i had to teach so somebody filled in for me, and when i asked friends+coworkers that night about what prep i missed for the wives, they gimme this story (paraphrased by me, with apologies):middle-aged dude (mungal, not patesar) supposed to perform that evening rushing in, pressed about being late. nobody study he, until he ass hit the ground by the tent-circle and eh get up. the marish and the parish gather, stage management crew ask admin for 1st aid kit, and please page red cross area/staff, site-specific or on-call emergency staff and ambulance...all in vain, 'cause come to find out, of course, dem eh have none of that shit organise. dem have "people's space" in an international summit where they plan to bring wives of delegates (not that it should matter how big the sawaties in question be, "people is people, you know what i mean...") and in an outdoor performance venue (leaking tents in rainyseason with real weather and puddles and gusts and live electrical equipment, uneven ground and makeshift and often dangerous stages+staircases, unfamiliar suroundings for all involved, ratchify with lesser infrastructure to accomplish stage necessities) they have absolutely no health+safety services on the premises or on call. not even mercurochrome and a plaster for if you buss yuh toe. one of the stage crew start basic cpr and manage to keep the man breathing until some kinnah emergency staff eventually come and tell him stop and ask his name and pertinent (to what, me eh know) info; he thought they were going to jump in and do something to save the man, but instead they just stand up and watch everybody stand up and watch the man dead on site.our redundant pm pm say development, progress, allyuh...walk good.ps: vexing that because of html tags i can't use the mathematical "less than" (20') symbol in this post cause blogger cyah overstand why i not closing tags...boo.

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Monday, December 21, 2009

doh know what to call fff #14

with brief note @ bottom, my flash fiction friday #14:no current. not the tiniest spark. as much as you want to feel something, you can’t muster even a shiver for this one. no charge, not a tremor, no tremble, no tingle, zingle or zap, no energy or vibes. hands brush accidentally to no thrills or chills, nothing but bare contact; no electricity, like knuckles passing smoothly over fruit; firm-skinned, sun-warmed but inanimate, life already over. you strain forward, trying to catch a sense of anything, re-disappointed at the continuing lack of fire.at least there’s food. tamarind-guava barbeque ribs, rosemary+pomegranate-molasses potatoes, some vege so you don’t feel so bad about your consummation (apparently the only one you can count on tonight), and a dry, fruity red. dessert to come; you already secretly debating the warm chocolate vs. cold fruit question.the ride home is mercifully short, not enough time for the lack of connection to become awkward with the merits of dinner to discuss and itunes shuffling delightfully from toots and the maytals to led zeppelin. pulling up to your gate you note the lack of light with annoyance, wonder aloud whether you forgot or the bulb is blown.not that you were soliciting, he responds,“well, yuh know, i find the whole street kinnah dark but couldn’t remember how it look earlier – was goin’ an’ ask…”“true, eh…”simultaneously,“no current…”he parks and announces gentlemanly intent to see you safely inside and candlelit. harmless enough; you acquiesce.prescient of the absence of heat, you don’t notice him hanging back to admire your velvet outline in night as you reach your gallery at the top of the stairs.inside the door, you turn back to tell him just have fire ready and stay put in these unfamiliar surroundings while you get candles, and he’s so close your lips graze his chin in the dark.finally, a jolt. maybe the suddenness, the surprise, maybe the darkness itself, this time you feel him, alive, as he whispers, a low growl in your startled ear making your stomach jump,“author's note: been trying for hours to make myself write more instead of ending it like this, but somehow, i like it best as is. this is where this piece ends this week regardless of how i cajole. it came out this way, and while withstanding editing, has refused to develop more plot. and i kind of like how it makes my stomach feel a rush right as it just stops, abruptly.walk good.

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Friday, December 18, 2009

extra-late flash fiction friday #14

i had no current today, from 10something a.m. until now. thus, the late fff #14 trigger, which i now present in honour of today's circumstances, a delayed-starter (feel free to reclaim deadline time by finishing for 6.05pm monday coming):no current...

rules of engagement:you will send in your suggestions for fff triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too brilliant not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.write fresh!walk good.

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Thursday, December 17, 2009

tcn2641; woman-beating bastard

december, rainy season, so why some days everywhere i go smell like the whole country on fire?this is a very belated but no less necessary post downcrying the driver (at least, @ 10.15pm, november20, 2009) of grey hilux tcn2641 for brutally advantaging a poor little indianlooking girl in the front passenger seat.me and the sistren liming outside the favourite spot drink! @ the intersection of warren, rosalino + roberts streets, and i hear somebody mutter something i have no recollection of now except that its result was my looking up instantly with expectations of not-good. and what we now watching was the driver of grey hilux tcn2641 whaling on his lone female passenger about a half-block away, across the triangle, opposite numero uno. now the 5-or-so of us comprise a chunk of the bishops mafia (merely one aspect of the current incarnation; on this occasion not including the author of that link, but i doubt she'd disagree with us) so our reaction was no surprise. we rush the vehicle; people start dialling emergency. we get close enough to realise he reclined her seat so he had better access and she was better trapped and as he notice our attempt to pull her doorhandle he drive off, still beating her. then as we watching for plate number and making sure we could say what happen, he pull over again, just across the intersection from where he leave us, to beat her better. so we rush the vehicle again, and as he see us coming he drive off, this time away into the distance, raining blows.still cyah find words to express my rage, and how it has not diminished in the nearly-month elapsed.this. shit. must. stop.walk good.

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Wednesday, December 16, 2009

whet appetite

reposted with no permissions whatsoever, but with full credit, words i have loved of late.via bc pires, from ian mcdonald's sunday stabroek column; by czeslaw milosz:A ConfessionMy Lord, I loved strawberry jamAnd the dark sweetness of a woman’s body.Also well-chilled vodka, herring in olive oil,Scents, of cinnamon, of cloves.So what kind of prophet am I? Why should the spiritHave visited such a man? Many othersWere justly called, and trustworthy.Who would have trusted me? For they sawHow I empty glasses, throw myself on food,And glance greedily at the waitress’s neck.Flawed and aware of it. Desiring greatness,Able to recognize greatness wherever it is,And yet not quite, only in part, clairvoyant,I knew what was left for smaller men like me:A feast of brief hopes, a rally of the proud,A tournament of hunchbacks, literature.and via tongues of the ocean; by nicholas laughlin:Here is the PoemBefore this was a phrase it was a pebble,something slippery, something with little teeth,the bitter of green, the smell of something red,it makes you sneeze, it hums like falling asleep.

Before this was a poem it was a question,or maybe the desire of a question,or maybe the desire for something to happen,the string that tautens when love is about to happen,the question that taunts when the tongue encounters a pebble,the name of the taste of something that smells like red.

A poem, like love, is always about to happen,unless it’s already happened. The thing about poems:poems are impossible, like the colour blue,and undeniable. The thing about blue:blue is a mirror, and has nothing to do with poems.Why does a poem want to be a poem?The colour blue doesn’t want to be a poem,but sometimes the poem wants to be heartless as blue,

the poem wants to be slick and snug as a pebble,sharp as small teeth, bitter as tea, and suddenas love (or a sneeze). And no one knows more than a poem,and that is where all desires and questions start.The poem says: here is a pebble, here is blue,damn your metaphysics, here are you.walk good.

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Monday, December 14, 2009

internet-slowed fff

flash fiction friday #13, late not because i didn't write to deadline, but because flow can't figure out what unlimited internet access means:

sweating profusely, he reconsidered the slick, smooth object in his hand. was this what he wanted?he turned it over, inspecting closely, checking aesthetics, checking for flaws, debating whether this was a good choice, the right choice. he put it on the counter and held out his hand for the other option. this one felt better in his hand; the weight of it seemed right, the size felt right.he picked up the first one again, now holding one in each hand for comparison. the second still felt better, but he preferred the look of the first. he put them down and dragged the back of his forearm across his forehead, then wiped his arm and sweaty palms on his jeans.eyes still fixed on the potential prize, he pulled a crumpled pack of dumaurier from his back pocket and gestured to the face wrinkling in confusion behind the counter that he’d be right back. he went outside and lit up, wanting the smoke to clear his mind so he could make a decision. he wasn’t sure he should be doing this. he wanted to get the right thing, but should he be encouraging bad habits?he finished his smoke, shivering a little by the time he was done, thinking how crazy it was that anybody still smoked cigarettes under these conditions – going outside all winter long, every time you needed a nicotine fix; who did that? talk about taking all the joy out of vice. he realised that by the time he got home he might have to do the same thing, but at least home all he had to worry about was rain. as he walked back into the store he wondered if the new law would affect his habit, thought that maybe it was time to quit anyway, shrugged the thought off as quickly and involuntarily as it popped up.he stepped back toward the counter, gauging the two pieces he was considering from distance as he approached, to see if it made any difference to his opinion. they were both beautifully blown, colourful, exactly what she’d like; and he realised that he was the last person to judge somebody else’s bad habits. he smiled at the thought of her excited face when she opened the box, and instantly knew this was the right gift.he bought his instinctive first choice; it was prettier, and the fact that it felt almost a little too light in his hand would make it perfect for her. he turned it over again, noticing that the design was more intricate than he’d thought, imagining her appreciation of the artistry the first time she used the pipe. she’d been talking about getting one since amsterdam and had really wanted to come on this trip too; when she saw what he brought back for her she wouldn’t care about missing shopping in new york, especially after she opened the next piece he was shopping for.he paid and left the head shop with the glass pipe wrapped in tissue paper, pleased enough that his anxiety about his next purchase faded until he found the store. one look at the lingerie in the window and the discreet sign promising “toys” inside, and the sweating started again.gripping his first gift for confidence in his abilities, he inhaled and went brave. as he crossed the threshold a bell tinkled announcing his presence, and a cute salesgirl appeared at his side. nervousness slipped the plastic bag from his sweaty hand, and the last thought he had before lack of oxygen to his brain dropped him to the floor next to it was how similar the breaking glass sounded to the bell that welcomed him to the wonderful world of sex, and how much better this gift would have to be now that there was only one…

rules of engagement:you will send in your suggestions for fff triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too brilliant not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.write fresh!walk good.

Wednesday, December 09, 2009

tragedy part2/3...

i have tings to write this week, but i'm all distracted- it seems my new flat determined to teach me a lesson about caution with precious items...i knew i was clumsy, but, damn...after breaking my glass pipe the other day, this single black female has now dropped+broken her glass dildo...sigh. aiming for that silver lining again, the same pardner who led to my pipe-purchase about to get a message asking to pretty please fedex me an njoypure wand or eleven which i been coveting but couldn't justify the purchase of until the recent realisation that my new flat wants me to learn early the dangers of its floors 'cause it can sense we staying together awhile. eleven's my favourite at an exorbitant $310...anybody brave enough to offer an opinion while i try to decide which? also considering going glass again...not at all exorbitant, and pretty, no?walk good.

block it out, concentrate, focus on other parts, it done in a moment and the payoff worth it. so worth it. focus on your tingling neck and earlobe, on the closeness of him, how good he smell and feel, all warmly pressed against your belly and boobs, firm and strong, focus on the fucking funeral frock crumpled on the floor, a smaller ball than one might have thought making you wonder for a moment if you looked the whole time like exactly the kind of slut who would find herself fucking somebody in her childhood bedroom while the wake continued below, focus on his hands roving your flesh, restless but purposeful, on the sensation of so many nerve endings shouting pleasure at once, on the insistently flashing 11.59pm, on how you hate when he stuffs his tongue deep in your ear, thick and wet, glad when his tongue returns to your neck+collarbone…he does mostly everything the way you like and so sexy doing it but the few things he gets wrong might be dealbreakers…as you rock yourself in sweet rhythm against his face, lifting your pelvis to grind subtly into his mouth, a flock of raucous green parrots flies over, joyously quarrelling about the strangeness of the hour of this big-posse movement and all the neighbourhood dogs start barking in response. as you come an earthquake trembles the walls+floor, making your stomach disappear completely from where it had landed when your orgasm’s overture flung it into your toes moments prior. a small ‘quake would have been eclipsed by your own eruption, but this one brought books down from shelves and lurched the bed back into position against the wall.you try to feel your toes, trying to catch yourself, and he smiles from between your thighs like serendipitous earthquakes are merely part of his special effects package. prick. although, his prick might be your favourite part of him, so don’t complain. at least, that’s what he’d say, hoping futilely for you to correct him…gently flick his left nipple and trace your fingertips as close to the right one as you can reach while he relaxes with his head on your chest, the rest of him still pleasantly heavy between your legs. look affectionately down at him and try to trick yourself into actually feeling something emotional in this moment to maximise that warmth you know you chasing tonight; the orgasm’s just one component, but an important one, and you knew you needed him here, now make the warmth as encompassing as possible and hold it tight to alleviate the chill emanating from your mind+bones+organs. food comes later.with perfect timing he slides up your body to kiss your eyelids and face, making your lower belly slick with a mix of your juices as his abdomen slides along yours, his thick hard penis following and marking its own sticky path. he eases back down just enough to enter you and as you feel the throbbing penetration you immediately come again and fall in love with him a little to the sound of bill withers’ use me wafting up from downstairs, for making this night bearable.

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Friday, December 04, 2009

flash fiction friday #12

so after an unanticipated lovely start in my new space, tragedy struck (so lovely it was lovely in spite of early plumbing issues) in an again strangely silver-lined repetition of fate.back in d.c. a pardner call and say he broke his glass pipe- it was on a wooden folding tv table, he'd recently moved from a place with different flooring, tried to drag the table over and the leg caught in grout, pipe rolled off onto tiles and broke- did i want to come shopping for a new one? i saw one i loved as we got to the case and after he chose his, talked myself into getting it and a small blue+white streaked bubbler for relatively cheap; decided to keep them clean so i could bring them home to sweet trini, which wasn't too far off.started using my gorgeous glass pipe when i got home april2008, was waiting for an occasion to break out the bubbler. i just moved into a place with different floors and tried to drag a wooden folding tv table the pipe was on, leg caught on a tile and my pipe rolled off and broke on the floor. the other irony: i was dragging the table to set up to fix 2 other pieces of paraphernalia broken in the move. but settling into my new place alone was perfect timing to break out the bubbler.the aforementioned moving being why i didn't fff (#11: block, clock, frock, rock, flock), i also chose not to read+comment yet because i still want to do #11 and don't want to be influenced. so for flash fiction friday #12 i'ma try to use #11's trigger too.real shit to talk post-fff, so lewwe wash foot and jump in- inclusion clause trigger again, only 'cause i was too tickled when it came to wait a week:prick, flick, trick, slick, thick

rules of engagement:you will send in your suggestions for fff triggers (starter sentences/phrases, closers, titles, inclusion clauses, etc.) anytime during the week up to 11.55am friday, trinbago timezone; i will post the new fff trigger by noon friday trinbago timezone.if your trigger is not chosen and you think it is too brilliant not to be chosen, you will send it in again the next week.you will write an anecdote, short story, or novel length prose poem using the trigger provided.you will add comments and appropriate linkage to my trigger-post indicating your desire to participate and the completion of your piece (don't need a blogger/gmail account to comment on my blog).you may join in at any time prior to the deadline.you will display your piece as a post on your own blog (or as a comment on my trigger-post or fasbook note or whatever, once we can all read it- please make sure we can all access the link to read it, not just those who are your friends on fasbook; there's a way to create public links for that, right?).you will be done by monday noon trinbago timezone.write fresh!walk good.

lise say she couldn't get her fff to post, so i trying. she say:after many weeks of sticking... here is mine. thanks for continuing, e.

ps, this is pretty raw.

Lisa Allen-Agostini

She wants me to write a porno. It has to be. Why else would she post the triggers: prick, flick, trick, slick, thick.So I started the game she wanted to play.

There in the dark there was nothing but silence until our bodies met in a gasp and a wave of motion. I reached out for his belly, brushed my hand against his hard prick by accident. It jumped towards my hand, satin, steel and heat-seeking. Nothing in the world felt quite like it.

But no. That felt wrong. It was porno but it was too elegant. Those words were fighting words. There was no poetry implied in the list she had presented. The only one missing was lick.

My tongue is lightning on his lips. Flick/lick and move away. Sometimes I bite. But not often, and not hard. This is about seduction, not punishment. Though at times he might ague different.

Hmm. That might work for an opening graph. A little short but nice rhythms and the textures were good. Almost like the lover I have in my imagination. Which reminded me of something. I tried a different approach.

“Let me show you a trick,” I told him. He smiled but I could see the panic in his gaze. He was new to this and the word trick meant magic cards and practical jokes. He had no context for juxtaposing the word trick with the tray of ice and the bottle of honey I had placed next to the bed. “Close your eyes,” I told him. At least he was obedient.

I was starting to enjoy this game. I wondered what she would do with the triggers, if she would have as much fun with them as I was. I briefly considered the possibility that maybe, perhaps, just maybe, she wasn’t making erotica with the trigger words she had supplied to us in her flash fiction Fridays group. I wondered about other passages she could make.

“You’ll feel a little prick,” said the nurse to the child on the bed. Susie had fainted at school and woken in the hospital. The nurse was drawing blood from a vein in her arm. Susie felt the stick of the needle, more of a pinch than a prick, really, and then the nurse released the rubber tie around Susie’s arm with a practiced flick of her fingers. She’d felt little or nothing through it all. “That’s slick,” Susie thought. “I wonder if I could learn that trick.” Then Susie wondered if they would test her blood for drugs. And what they would do to her if they did. A drugs test would unearth her secret, so poorly kept. Susie looked the definition of a junkie. If her mother wasn’t so thick she would have seen it long ago. “Thank heaven for thick mothers,” Susie thought, looking for an exit. It was time for her fix.

Well, that was interesting. But not for me. Now I want this. I want to finish my story using this list in a way that satisfies me. Maybe in more ways than one.

It was always his voice that did her in. His raspy, subdued voice wasn’t what you would expect to turn a woman on. In fact, he sounded normal. Just a guy. Nothing special. But somehow, every time she hung up after a conversation with him, there was a slick, clear streak in her panties. He made her wet without even trying, without even knowing that he did.

Crap. No matter how I tried to be coarse I couldn’t do it. Damn literary language! Sneaking into my porn and corrupting it! Who said I wanted erotica? Give me wet pussies and hard cocks, none of this elegant illusion. I wished I could write sex, red in tooth and claw. The way I like it.

It wasn’t long but it was thick and she had to make him go slow or he would rip her in two. Mightn’t be a bad idea, just for the shit of it, but she might need her pussy tomorrow, so she thought her hand on his hip as a reminder was the way to go.

Okay, that’s the one. That’s it, right there. That’s the one I’m going to finish. Inhaling, I smelled how well I could use my imagination.